I should have known something felt off the second we turned down that narrow dirt path.

The main campground had been packed, lanterns everywhere, folks chatting around big bonfires,

and I hoped we'd find a quiet patch just a bit further out. Quiet is exactly what we found,

but I'm not sure it was the kind of

peaceful we were looking for. The sunlight was long gone by the time we hopped out of the car,

and my phone flashlight did a poor job illuminating the cramped gravel pull off. My girlfriend

gave me a look that said, this is the best we can do? Our friend, riding a mix of excitement and nerves,

was already scanning the tree line,

probably wondering if we'd made a mistake by choosing the far edges of the campsite.

I shrugged like it was no big deal,

but I had that nagging tingle in my gut,

the sense that things were about to get strange.

Still, we got to work. The three of us fumbled with our tents, the beams of our flashlights

zigzagging through the darkness. At one point, I managed to stab my thumb on a tent stake,

and I muttered a few choice words under my breath. Meanwhile, every

time a twig snapped, we paused to stare into the shadows. The place was so quiet, it was

almost suffocating, like the woods had collectively decided to hold back all sound. It made the

hair on the back of my neck prickle each time the wind rustled through the leaves.

Once we wrangled both tents upright, we started a small fire, nothing fancy, just enough to

grill a few hot dogs and keep our morale from dipping too far. Flickers of orange light danced across

our faces, and I swear the shadows around us grew taller. My girlfriend forced

a grin, trying to pass off her anxiety as curiosity, while our friend told some half-hearted

...